five times kuroko and aomine didn't bump fists
by jarofclay42
Summary: [AoKuro] Every missed fist bump is, coincidentally, a stage of their friendship.


**These days I've been wanting SO MUCH to write an all-Teikou!GoM third year-set fic along with my first KiKuro ever, I've been plotting and half-writing a lot *_***  
**Awesome final result: I wrote another aokuro.**  
**but! it isn't as painful as the title makes it sound! (warning: I might be lying)**

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5.

At the end of their extra basketball practice they sit together on the low wall outside the gym and as Kuroko ties his shoelaces, he realizes that his existence has gradually fallen into a clear, mostly constant pattern whose daily repetitiveness—even considering the devastating training and the occasionally snarky teammates, since the accomplished goals and the victories and Aomine fully compensate for those—is far from feeling like a dull monotony and that, unexpectedly, this has turned into one of the most fulfilling periods of his life.

"Kise didn't stop babbling about the match for _one freaking moment_," Aomine groans as he adjusts the strap of the gym bag on his shoulder. "I swear to god he looked high on meth. What did you do to impress him _this_ much?"

Kuroko shrugs humbly before straightening up. "The usual?"

Raising his head to the starry sky, eyes distant and thoughtful, Aomine stares at it in wonder, like he's just remembered something essential, an axiom of basic simplicity that was foolish of him to forget because it is the one truth that allows everything else to make sense. "Huh, right. You _are_ amazing on a regular basis."

Kuroko wonders if Aomine cares to listen to his own words once in a while; if he happens to think sometimes, before talking.

(Aomine doesn't. Except that this, right now, doesn't pose a problem.)

"It was fun playing with Kise-kun, but it's not the same without Aomine-kun," he says in lame retaliation.

Mild surprise washes over Aomine's face before his lips break into a pleased grin. It's almost identical to the one he makes when they play basketball together, but not quite. It's more discreet, it holds untold words in its tight corners, shielding them from the ones who don't possess the right decryption key. Kuroko likes to think he's one of the few who has it, and not because he's getting good at observing people.

"Don't tell Kise," he laughs with mirth, "but of course we'll always be the best of partners. Won't we?"

Given Aomine's self-confidence, Kuroko assumes that's supposed to be a rhetorical question. But he answers anyway with a soft, just as faintly secretive 'yes' meaning it with all his heart, and the question now holds the comforting undertones of an everlasting promise.

It's a pity that, when Aomine offers his fist, Kuroko's gets pushed off course by Momoi appearing out of nowhere and firmly gluing herself to his back, slim arms hugging his neck and eliciting a comical whimper that he hopes has gotten lost in the loud yell of, "Tetsu-kun!"

"This is getting old," Aomine grumbles. "Really fast."

"You're just jealous," Momoi bites back with a jaunty flip of her hair. "You need to learn how to share, Dai-chan."

"Who would be jealous of people that have you pasted on like a pestering extra appendage?!" he utters and as usual his words slide wittingly like rain on a waxed jacket. "This is not even about sharing, it's about letting him _breathe_."

As Aomine makes a half-hearted attempt at freeing Kuroko and asks apprehensively, "_Can_ you breathe?", Momoi looks at Aomine like he's the stupidest creature to have ever walked the earth and Kuroko elaborates personal considerations about the fact that Aomine is too carefree a wild spirit to be the possessive type.

(And he's right, Aomine is not, has no reason to be.

Yet.)

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4.

He can feel it in the air, the smell of strong opponents beckoning his strength to come out. Everything is gonna be fine, he thinks, is gonna be fun, as usual. Maybe better. He looks around hungrily in the swarming sea of enthusiastic players and wonders who's gonna be the toughest one to smash.

Sliding his way through the crowd like a leaf flowing with the wind through giant pillars, Kuroko walks up to him and shoots him a faltering look. "Aomine-kun… will you do your best?"

The faintest hint of a contrite grimace is all he allows his own face to show in response to Kuroko's hopeful voice before thrusting the sheer excitement back to the surface, in plain sight for everyone—Kuroko—to behold.

"As usual, Tetsu," he chuckles as he offers his fist. "Let's win this, together."

Kuroko's face appears so relieved and satisfied that it almost looks like he does it on purpose, just to deliver the few pangs of weak guilt that hit him then.

(Aomine knows it's not like that, of course; he's just not very used to guilt yet.)

Fingers closing on his palm, Kuroko's hand is promptly moving away from his hip when a shout of "Kuroko!" rings in the air and Kuroko glances to the side, surprised.

"I'm sorry, Aomine-kun," he quickly apologizes as he slips away from him, fist bump forgotten and this has never happened to Aomine and suddenly, with his fist hanging in the air, he feels quite stupid.

He watches from afar Kuroko smiling one of the largest grins he's ever flashed as he reaches the guy who called his name – and this guy yells something in utter _glee_ before throwing an arm around Kuroko's shoulder, his tall frame leaning heavily on him and that's a familiar scene already.

Aomine watches and for the first time he wonders, hypocritically, why everyone always feels the need to touch Kuroko in one way or another. He crafts hypothesis on the matter. (They're mostly wrong; one, surprisingly, is half right.)

But he thinks he gets it now. The 'sharing' part.

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3.

An unrequited fist bump is not the end of the world.

He grasps at straws as he's left standing alone in the middle of the court, legs wobbling forward by inertia for a few more steps before halting completely, an arm still half-raised meaninglessly and the deafening cheering sounds from Teikou's bleachers falling silent like a tuned out radio. He feels the gaze of all the other regulars but one trained on him, a prickling that he itches to scratch away.

Kise is nice enough to come to his rescue, though. A few strides and he's there, encouragingly patting Kuroko's quickly slumping back upright again, like everything is okay. It's not effective, but Kuroko wills it to be and he finds himself hoping for one more touch from Kise.

"You did great, Kurokocchi!" Kise says with forced cheerfulness as his eyes follow in confusion the sight of Aomine's back drifting away.

A part of his brain wonders if it would have been different—better—if he had used his fist to punch Aomine, or their opponents. But it was a one moment's chance and that slipped away when the rush of helplessness nestled on his shoulders and refused to leave him—now it's too late already, so he unclenches his fist and lets it falls.

It's not the end of the world, he repeats in his head.

He'd better get used to Aomine's back.

(He won't, though.

He never will.)

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2.

"You didn't have to accompany me," Aomine mutters, barely audible over the sound of the oncoming train. "I'm not Satsuki."

"I can tell," Kuroko replies, placid. "Momoi-san is very cute and soft-spoken."

"Actually, even if I _was_ Satsuki," Aomine insists, and he averts his eyes, "I'd never want _you_ as a chaperone."

"I gather you haven't taken a good look at my guns."

His snort is so loud that some strangers send them brief, worried glances. "Shut up, you and your imaginary guns," he says, and busies himself with a frown, putting a remarkable effort into keeping any threat of a smile or glimpses of happiness off his face, because he's not that sure he's allowed to show those.

When the train slows down to a halt and the doors open in front of them, Aomine lets out a distinct, "Tetsu," as if he is experimenting—how the sound feels when it rolls off his tongue with that precise inflexion, that specific tone—the bewildering rediscovery of a far-off familiarity, of a curious word that he's lost the habit of pronouncing. He decides that, even as painful as it sounds, he likes everything about it.

Patiently, Kuroko follows him wordlessly with his sharp gaze as Aomine gets on the train and turns around again sporting a stoic, too stern expression.

"Tell Kagami that if he dares lose against someone like Akashi," he says in a tone that brooks no argument, "I'm gonna lock him in some kennel for the rest of winter."

Kuroko nods, looking almost fascinated by the fine cruelty of that idea.

"Tetsu, you…" Aomine's voice trails off on its own, failing its only task. "Win the match tomorrow, okay?"

"We will," Kuroko guarantees and, through the puzzlement, Aomine recognizes the familiar strong-willed obstinacy in his soothing voice. "I will."

Aomine falters; he's on the verge of adding a few last words, but the doors sliding closed between them spare him from choosing whether or not to say them. Through the transparent panel, he keeps looking at Kuroko, who just as silently reciprocates his stare and Aomine feels like they're having a mental conversation in two different languages, one whose final meaning he's sadly not sure of. He crafts hypothesis, though, and carefully decorates them with small, flickering hopes. (One of them is so close to a two-way truth that it resonates in accord between the two of them, it gleams in their eyes for a heartbeat, before Aomine can push it back again somewhere deep in his mind, not trusting it more than himself.)

His fist has never felt this heavy, he thinks as he slowly raises it, presses it against the cold glass and waits, feeling a bit dumb when the eyes of a lone passenger beside him scan him critically. But he keeps it there and waits, and prays.

And Kuroko, acting like it's the most obvious response he could give to his request when clearly it is _not_, grants him that faint smile of his that tells stories and makes Aomine want to punch his way out of the train to do something reckless that he _knows_ he can't—and raises his own smaller, gloved fist.

When their knuckles are inches away, the train starts moving and Aomine wonders if they're destined to stay like that forever: standing in front of each other with a thin, transparent wall made of history separating them.

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1.

'Why did we wait so long to go out like this again?' Kuroko asks himself heedlessly in the spur of the moment, forgetting that they both know the answer.

"You still suck at one-on-one," Aomine wheezes, throwing his sweaty head back and taking a deep breath. "But that trick? That was a nice one, Tetsu."

"I'm learning it in order to beat you," Kuroko reveals in a ragged voice, knees supporting his hands as he hunches over in exhaustion. "Kagami has been training very hard too."

Aomine passes a hand over his forehead before snorting. "Yeah, don't dream too big, you two," he says, but Kuroko can see the wide smirk directed at the clouds blotching the summer sky.

"Aomine-kun is so full of himself."

"I am not!"

When he can speak again without the need to gasp for air, Kuroko adds with honesty, "I'd like to do this more often."

"If we were…" Aomine begins, still smirking airily at nothing as he raises the bottle of Pocari to his mouth, but stops mid-sentence, looking suddenly troubled. He hastily fills the gaping silence with a nervous gulp of his water.

"Yeah, we should," he resumes as he wistfully licks his lower lip and with a lopsided smile that looks more uncertain than sincere, he hesitates, eyes darting between Kuroko and the ground, before taking a few steps towards Kuroko and raising his fist. "Like old times, huh?"

Kuroko impassively eyes the proffered hand for a moment too long for Aomine's streak of confidence to outlive it and his face turns even more into a cascade of second thoughts and shame when all Kuroko answers is, "Not really."

But Kuroko is determined not to miss any more opportunity with Aomine, not when they're standing in front of him yelling to come forth (because even if they _do_ speak different languages when they're not playing basketball, truth is that Kuroko has been holding the key to both since forever).

So he does raise his hand before Aomine can take the chance to back down; leniently, gently, he palms the offered fist and pushes it down for him as his other hand goes up to Aomine's nape and beckons him to go lower, to come closer.

When his fingers run to the other's wrist and gently pull at it, widened blue eyes throw him a lost, ruffled look before Kuroko can smooth it out by standing on tiptoes and reaching Aomine's lips.

The uncapped bottle of Pocari falls to the ground with a crinkled pop and rolls away from their feet, spilling water in its wake.

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**Well, Aomine _is_ full of LOTS of things.**

**I had actually written a "and one they did" too but it was too happy and crowdy, it didn't fit so I'll just keep it for my first OgiAoKagaxKuroko fic.  
**


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